


The Open Way

by Oberonsexton



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:25:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1423063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oberonsexton/pseuds/Oberonsexton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Robert's Rebellion has been crushed and the Targaryen dynasty continues to reign supreme, yet the Game of Thrones never changes....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He woke to the creak of a chamber door.

His head was cloudy with sleep; eyes squeezed shut, his dream still on the fringes of his mind. The padding sound of little feet came up beside his bed, and Oswell tried to make himself appear dead to the world. How many hours did he sleep since he finished his duty? His body was weak with exhaustion.

“Wake up!” a childish voice urged from beside him. The sound only made him bury his face deeper into his pillow, the remnants of his dream fading fast. “It’s _morning!”_

Oswell gave a groan of annoyance and pulled the blanket over his head, hoping that would be enough of a message to the child. There was a silence, but he could still feel the child’s presence. _By the Gods, can’t a man sleep?_ He was supposed to be abed for another three hours yet. _And standing around in heavy armour isn’t exactly easy on the shoulders…_

“We’re having Lamprey Pies,” the girl said, trying to urge him awake.

He opened one bloodshot eye and peaked out at the Princess. Daenerys was standing there in her lavender dress, staring at him expectantly and Oswell felt his resolve weaken. _Damn those big eyes…_ “Alright Princess,” he groaned miserably. “I’ll be up in just a moment.”

Oswell looked up at his chamber’s ceiling, staring at it with half-closed eyes, unable to make any of his muscles move much. _Waking up,_ he decided, _is a lot like crawling out of a bog of mud in full plate armour._

“You’ll fall asleep again Ser,” the child complained.

He sucked in a breath through his nose and exhaled it through his mouth before throwing the covers from his bed and putting his feet on the floor, face in his hands, rubbing the sleep away. He turned to look at the princess who was still standing near the foot of his bed, staring at him. “How did you get here? Why aren’t you with your mother?"

The little princess gave him a frown. “Mother was being boring,” she said, as if that answered everything. “So I came to see if you wanted to come down to breakfast.”

Not for the first time, Oswell found himself wondering why he had ever chosen to get involved with the royal family in the first place. _Oh that’s right,_ he remembered bitterly. _I thought being glorified across the realm would be a good laugh._ If this was glory, why did it taste like tedium? He did not feel particularly glorious, being led around by a five year old. He felt irritated and tired.

 _And sore._ Every muscle in his body ached, and his neck gave an awfully loud crack as he turned his head one way and then the other. He had been pushing himself hard in the precious moments he had when not on duty, spending his time sparring and training and urging himself on until his whole body hardened with aches. Just thinking of it made him wince, but he kept at it, every day. _‘A Knight of the Kingsguard is a sword and like all swords he needs to be honed,’_ Ser Gerold had once told him, and it was a lesson he had not forgotten.

Oswell slowly stood up and rolled his shoulders to get the stiffness out, and then grabbed a tunic from the pile that sat beside his bed and slipped it on. He was still wearing the breeches of last night, but could not find the energy to find better attire when his current wears would serve. He washed his face in a nearby basin, allowing the cold water to remove the last inches of sleep from his mind.

He turned to Daenerys. The little princess was busy admiring his helm, tracing around the bat wings with her finger. It occurred to him that Rhaegar had a similar look whenever he was examining a book he had not read. _Though this child’s eyes are softer than Rhaegar’s,_ he noticed. _And they lack the deep sorrow._ As long as Oswell had known the king he had been unusually sombre, a trait that his siblings did not share. “Princess,” he asked, “Are we ready to go?

Her hand quickly drew away from his helm at the sound of his voice. “Yes, I think mother will be missing me.” She watched him as he grabbed his sword from its place against his bed. “Do you need to take that with you everywhere, Ser?”

“Oh yes,” he replied without much enthusiasm as they left the chamber. “I am practically married to it.”

The little Princess looked up at him as though he had grown a second head. “But why would the Septons marry you to a sword?”

“A jape princess,” he said with a faint smile as his eyes flicked about the corridor for threats, an old habit that he could not shake even when not on duty.

With Dragonstone so crowded, Oswell could not hope that he and the princess would not be disturbed by any jabbering fools. On their way to the Great Hall they found Lord Paxter Redwyne and Mace Tyrell quietly discussing some matter. As soon as they caught sight of the princess they stopped and exchanged pleasantries with her. It was strange to see the Fat Flower so far from the capitol and stranger still to see him actually excited about it. He and Redwyne both gave a bow. “How are you today my princess?” Tyrell asked with a pleasant grin.

Daenerys gave a perfect curtsey. “I am well, thank you my lords.”

The two lords chatted away with the child, walking by her side as they made their way towards the Great Hall. All the while Oswell stayed just a few steps behind, watching all and hearing nothing. _That’s right my lords, continue to simper and bow to a five year old. Winning favour with a child will do you no good._

The doors of the Great Hall loomed up in front of them, fashioned in such a way that one literally had to enter through the dragon’s mouth. The hall itself was warm like dragonfire, the sky outside was unusually clear and the sun shone through the windows, illuminating all the guests who had gathered for breakfast.

 _And what a gathering it is._ Lady Rhaella had gathered together all the lords on the Narrow Sea sworn to Dragonstone, Lords Hayford, Massey and Farring of the Crownlands, a handful of Reach lords that had accompanied Tyrell and Redwyne, and even some Northmen. _And all for Prince Viserys’ name day,_ he didn’t believe it for a moment. _None of these men give a fig about some boy’s celebration, or least not enough to travel all the way to Dragonstone._

If Prince Viserys was concerned about so many strange people attending his name day, then he gave no indication. The young prince smiled at everyone and everything, looking like a thinner version of his older brother. To his right sat his mother, who was murmuring something to lord Bar Emmon, and to his left sat his nephew prince Jon, who was sitting in solemn silence as everyone else around him chattered about. Ser Barristan stood guard, giving Oswell the slightest of nods as he walked in with the princess and the two lords.

“Daenerys!” called the Queen dowager. “Where have you been child?”

The little girl was shooed over to a seat on the dais beside her nephew whilst Mace Tyrell went to exchange courtesies with Lady Rhaella. Oswell, feeling oddly rejected, walked over to Ser Barristan and took up a place beside him, eyes facing the royal family and scanning for any sign of danger. They didn’t talk, Kingsguard never spoke to one another whilst protecting their charge, but there was a silent welcome from the older knight and Oswell felt himself relax just a little bit.

The guests broke their fast on honeycakes baked with blackberries and nuts, gammon steaks, bacon, autumn pears, and a Dornish dish of eggs cooked up with fiery peppers. There were flagons of milk and flagons of mead and flagons of light sweet golden wine to wash it down. Musicians walked about piping and fluting and fiddling, much to the delight of the younger guests in attendance. Oswell watched them all carefully, trying to see any hint of danger among them. The thought brought the vaguest hint of a smile to his lips. _Even battered and bruised I could still carve any foe in two before they got near the children._

When the food had been cleared away it had been time for gifts. Usually such things were done with more grandiosity, but the Queen clearly had something else planned for her second born. The lords Celitgar and Velaryon both presented the prince with swords of dazzling make and beauty, whereas Bar Emmon brought forth several books dating back from the time of the Old King. “These were given to my family by King Jaehaerys, your noble ancestor. It is my privilege to return them to you my prince.”

“Books are just as valuable as swords,” the prince announced dutifully, his eyes occasionally flicking over to the Queen Dowager for reassurance.

Mace Tyrell waited until last to present Viserys with his name day gift: a dazzling suit of armour as black as polished onyx, the mail was a dark crimson, finely wrought, upon the chestplate the three-head dragon of House Targaryen stood out, encrusted with rubies much like the one Rhaegar wore at the Trident. The helm was no less dazzling; with its curved dragon wings that looked half like horns and a visor that was carved and designed in such a way that it resembled a snarling beast where the wearer’s mouth was. The prince looked like he was about to burst with excitement.

 _Dragons,_ thought Oswell with a stifled laugh. _Even Rhaegar in his wisdom was not immune to the call their image had on his family._ He watched them continue to babble on like trained ravens for some time, wondering if Ser Barristan was feeling as bored as he was.

Eventually Prince Viserys rose, looking the picture of Targaryen gallantry and with a smile that would send many a maiden swooning. He thanked all the lords that had come to celebrate his name day, promising them that he would not forget such kind gestures. _Rhaella’s words coming from his mouth,_ Oswell noted. _She has the boy trained well._

The Queen Dowager rose as well, smiling benevolently at her son. “The King has given you a gift as well my son,” she announced happily. “It is sitting in port just outside this very castle, _Vermax’s Flame_ , all for you.”

There was a collective cheer and barrage of compliments thrown in Viserys direction, and Oswell could practically feel the lords trying to suck at the Prince’s favour. He kept his disdain covered underneath a blank stare.

“Let us see this grand vessel!” called one lord.

“Aye, it must surely be a thing of beauty!” called another.

Viserys turned to his mother pleadingly, looking more a child than a young man of three and ten. The Queen smiled at him and gave her consent. With a broad grin he scooped up his squealing sister and with a cheer led the procession out of the hall towards the docks. A silent signal had been given, and the two members of the Kingsguard moved from their places to follow them, yet a soft hand on Oswell’s arm stayed him. He turned to see the Queen Dowager staring at him with a benign smile.

“Would you be so kind to wait a moment Ser Oswell?” she asked, purple eyes shining. “I’m sure Ser Barristan can keep my son from too much trouble, for five minutes at least.”

Oswell bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

“You are not at rest,” she observed.

 _Though I ought to be,_ he reflected with more than a little bitterness. “The princess had other notions,” he confessed. “For some reason she felt my presence necessary.”

“And you let yourself be cowed by a child?” She gave a knowing smile and leant back against the table of the dais. “If she can charm great knights at the age of five, she’ll have the entire kingdom wrapped about her little finger at five and _ten_.”

 _And you will have the girl wrapped around your finger, won’t you my lady?_ The Queen had been a dutiful woman during the reign of King Aerys, but Oswell was no fool to think that she had no mind for politics. “A gift she shares with all of her royal siblings; Prince Viserys composed himself quite well in front of such noble guests.”

Rhaella rolled her eyes. “Viserys has had enough time to learn the ways of court, but he still…” the Queen Dowager trailed off, and her face fell into a slight frown as she looked down. Oswell’s eyes followed her and saw the young prince Jon clutching to her skirts.

“Grandmother,” he said in his tiny, solemn voice. “They all left without me.”

Ser Oswell always found himself staring at King Rhaegar’s second son. _It is for you that Seven Kingdoms bled_ , he wanted to say, but that was not fair and he knew it. Rhaegar had whisked away the Stark girl and married her in secret under the notion that she would birth him another princess for his damned prophecy, and Oswell had helped him do it. All the while war and devastation broke out in their absence, staying at some cursed tower in Dorne. _And for what? Lyanna Stark died_ _and Rhaegar did not get the daughter his dreams told him of._ Jon Targaryen was a living reminder of Rhaegar’s folly and for that the king would not have him in the capitol.

Rhaella however, loved the child fiercely. “Never mind the others sweetling,” she cooed. “Why don’t you go read one of Viserys new books, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

With a gentle nudge, the boy gave one last look at the two adults and went over to the table, sitting down on the steps of the dais and opened one of the books. Despite the overwhelming colouring of his mother’s house, Oswell noted that the prince had some of Rhaegar in him. _It’s the eyes,_ he realised. _The boy has his father’s sad eyes…_

“The prince does not seem to struggle with his letters,” The Kingsguard noted.

Rhaella had the smallest of smiles on her face as she watched her youngest grandchild. “He takes after Rhaegar in that,” her eyes moved up to meet his, her maternal pride swallowed under a mask of cold courtesy. “But then, you know my son well do you not?”

“Yes,” he gave an artless shrug. “The King and I are friends, that is no secret.”

“Rhaegar is loved by many, but he has few friends.” The Queen’s eyes were sharp, more so than they had ever been when her husband was alive. “So tell me Ser, why would he send one of the few people he can trust away from court?”

 _If only you knew the half of it._ He looked at the Queen evenly. “I was not sent, Your Grace, I asked to come.”

The Queen threw back her head and chuckled at that, it was an oddly musical sound. “And why in the world would you willingly choose to exile yourself here to my humble isle? Surely there is greater honour to be found in King’s Landing, and Ser Barristan manages just fine protecting us from non-existent assassins.”

He took his time answering her, and instead looked over at Jon. Oswell had been there the day that Lyanna birthed him, killing herself in the act. Ser Arthur tended to the child, and Ser Gerold frightened the midwives into silence, but it was Oswell who heard the lady’s last words as she bled out. _‘His name is Jon,’_ she whispered in a strangled voice. _‘Promise me he’ll be kept safe, promise me…”_ As of late he had thought on those words often.

After a time he blew out a sigh. “The King commanded me to watch over his youngest child once,” he turned back to the queen. “He may not have known that it would be another son, but he commanded me to protect him. Duty compels me to uphold my oath, even if the King has forgotten.”

“You served my son over his father,” she pointed out. “Even though Aerys was your lawful king you chose to conspire with Rhaegar rather than stay loyal.”

 _And I kept silent when Aerys choked to death,_ he added silently. They all knew it was Elia Martell and her Dornish handmaidens who poisoned the king once they knew Rhaegar’s victory over the rebels was certain. Each and every man in the Kingsguard knew, and yet they never spoke the words aloud, as if by not saying the truth could make it go away. “That was for the good of the realm,” he said quietly. “I am not here to spy on you, my Queen.”

There was a moment of utter silence as Rhaella regarded him with her piercing purple eyes. There was more life and fire in them now than he had ever seen during the time she served as Queen rather than simply the Queen Dowager, a dragon awakened after so long dormant. Finally the smallest of grins appeared across her face and she leant forward slightly, voice lowered to a whisper. “How would you like to serve the realm yet again?”

Before he could answer, she turned and went over to collect Jon. “Come sweetling, let us go see Viserys new ship.”


	2. The Choice is Yours

**A/N: Big thank you to everyone who left a review, they keep me inspired!**

**RICHARD**

A heavy wind blew through his hair, as soft as a lover's caress. He could hear birds calling, and smell the flowers in bloom, their scent overpowering everything else. After so long in the stench of King's Landing, the world and its open air was so sweet that Richard Lonmouth felt as though he had been touched by the divine. _I'll need all the help I can get,_ he thought soberly.

Despite his pleasant surroundings, Richard could not bring himself to feel entirely at ease. _The King has put his trust in me;_ he told himself whenever he felt his resolve weaken, like a prayer. It had been hard riding for the last few days and Richard had not thought to bring any skins of wine for the journey, something that he was greatly regretting. _It was for the best,_ he reminded himself. _My head needs to be clear for this, elsewise it could very nearly be my life._

"Do you think he's made it back to Stokeworth, Ser?" asked his squire, and sole companion, Bryce Caron.

Richard took a moment, considering the woods around them, the stoniness of the ground below them, and then turned to his squire. "I think not," he gestured to the particularly rough path that lay ahead of them, all tree roots and sharp rocks. "He'd have to dismount like we have to get through this drudgery. I'd say he's less than a day ahead of us, and perhaps three days from reaching the castle."

Manly Stokeworth had been a loyal and efficient commander of the City Watch throughout the reign of King Aerys, and until recently had served Rhaegar just as leally. That was before the man killed three people and fled the city in a mad rush. Richard had been shocked as the rest of the court when he heard of the man's actions, and from his own experience with Stokeworth the commander had come across as dutiful and unassuming. _And then he opened up the bellies of three hapless knights and left another a cripple..._

Not an hour later Richard was called before the King and given the task of bringing Stokeworth to justice, a task he readily accepted. Lord Connington offered to lend him thirty Gold Cloaks, but in the end Richard had refused and took only Bryce, in part because he would move faster with fewer men, and also because he misliked the idea of riding with warriors who had once served under the madman.

"Mayhaps his horse broke a leg," suggested the boy as they slogged on through the thick forest.

"Mayhaps," he replied. "But not likely, he'll have left it behind before attempting to progress."

The boy hummed in acknowledgement and continued on, heavy gear hung over his back and nary a word of complaint. _He's a good lad,_ Richard thought. _He'll make a fine knight someday._ It still felt like only yesterday when he was the squire and Rhaegar the one to give him the gift of knighthood. _Have I known a happier day?_ He thought not.

They continued on in contented silence for hours more, until finally the sun had lowered to the horizon and the air began to cool as the sun dipped below the tops of the trees. Richard felt gooseflesh prickling his arms and decided that they'd gone as far as they could that day. He found an elm that hung down just enough to provide a barrier against the chill and with Bryce sat down to make camp.

" Fire?" the boy asked, looking hopeful.

"Not tonight lad," he sighed. "Such light might give us away, and who knows what Stokeworth would do if he knew we were following him."

The boy looked at him dubiously for a moment. "Is he really such a warrior? They said he'd gone mad."

"Madness doesn't always dull a man's skill at battle," he thought of the things he had seen on the Trident, the way men would carve into each other's flesh whilst themselves bleeding to death. It took a considerable force of will to not shudder. "Sometimes madmen are the deadliest foes you'll face."

"What will you do when you find him?"

 _The one question I'd hoped not to be asked tonight._ He wanted to be absent of thought when it came to delivering Rhaegar's justice, and knew that if he allowed himself to be consumed by the morality of his actions then his life would be forfeit. _Hesitation,_ he told himself, _is an invitation to disaster…_

Richard sat with his back against the elm and took out some salted beef, took a small bite and considered his answer as he chewed. "It all depends on the man. If he does not give me any cause and comes with us peacefully, then he'll not be harmed. King Rhaegar is a merciful man; he will likely give the man the choice to take the black."

"But what if you can't reason with him?" the boy asked, looking worried. "Will you kill him?"

"I'll do what I have to."

Silence fell over their tiny camp after that, both of them chewing on their strips of salted beef in contemplation. The trees were bright with moonlight, and the sky was cloudless and speckled with stars. Richard did not want to want to spend such a good night brooding over dark possibilities. "How has your father been keeping Bryce? Does he write often?"

The squire gave a small chuckle. "Once every turn of the moon, though he writes enough to fill a library."

"Misses you does he?" the thought made Richard smile.

Bryce unsheathed his sword, a small but well-made length of steel with an intricate pommel inlaid with nightingales. "He had this gave this to me the day I left Nightsong, perhaps to vain a weapon for a simple squire, but it always reminds me of him."

Richard's own father had been just as proud when it was announced that he would squire for the crown prince, almost as excited as Richard himself. The old man had wept the day Rhaegar laid his sword on his son's shoulder and proclaimed him a knight. Richard had wept too, though only later when out of sight from all others. He was certain that it had all been a dream, in a way it still felt like a dream. _So much has changed…_

He looked at the boy sitting with him. Bryce was younger than Richard was when he took up the duties of squire, a young lordling from the Stormlands with so much ambition and hopes. He could see it all reflected in his squire, like looking into a mirror through time. _I will teach him the arts of battle, the same as you taught me, Rhaegar. He is a good lad, and might be one day he'll make a better knight than either of us._

The next day he woke to the sound of crow squawking from above. The sun had only just risen, bathing the sky in hues of gold and purple and slowing reviving the world. Bryce was lying curled up beneath his cloak, snoring slightly. Richard leant over and gently shook him awake. "Up you get. We need to get moving."

The boy rose quickly enough, rubbing his eyes. "What about breakfast?"

"We'll eat as we go."

They moved quickly in the early light, the morning just cold enough to keep them sharp. The further they travelled the stonier the ground beneath them seemed to get and it was all they could do to not hurt themselves. Richard had chosen to wear his armour this day, despite the long trek on foot and the added weight. Manly Stokeworth was near; he could feel it with every inch of his being.

As they pushed on Richard began to think all the unsavoury thoughts that he had tried to deny for the last few days and by the gods did he need a drink. _Ah yes, that solves everything doesn't it?_ Back before the Rebellion Richard had lived a clean life, allowing himself few vices. He rarely whored, rarely drank, and always made sure to practice with his blade every day. He even prayed every morning to the Seven so that he might better fulfil his vows. That was the effect Rhaegar had on most men, he knew. Rhaegar made men feel the need to be better than they were, and for a long time Richard had been a great knight.

Everything changed at the Tourney of Harrenhall. Rhaegar had begun to share his thoughts less and less with Richard and his other former squire, Myles Mooten. Even Lord Connington noted the change in the prince's nature, and the man was one of his closest confidants. Richard, in the absence of his prince, had spent much of the tourney conversing with his fellow Stormlanders, especially his liege lord Robert Baratheon. _What a fool I was,_ he silently chided himself. The heir of Storm's End had proven to be a toxic influence, charismatic and jovial, always pushing Richard into more and more. Over those ten days Richard found himself drinking more and paying less attention to his vows. In truth, he was happy during that time and felt unburdened by all. _It didn't take long for that shallow façade to fall away._

Towards the end of the tourney, when the Knight of the Laughing Tree had somehow incited King Aerys' wroth, things had gotten even worse. Rhaegar hardly spoke to anyone but for Arthur Dayne, whilst the King raged, so in the end Richard had taken it upon himself to try and cool Aerys temper. He failed, of course, and Rhaegar had finally stirred himself to resolve the matter. Richard desperately wanted to prove himself to both father and son, but in the end it was not to be and whilst in his cups had taken Robert Baratheon's advice and danced with one of the pretty maidens, and at the time Barbara Bracken was agreeable to his company. When the dance was done he led her up to his chambers and took her maidenhead. By the time the tourney was over she was but a distant memory.

 _I was a craven,_ he thought with as much disgust and self-loathing as he could muster. _I should have married her and not left her to face her father's anger and her mother's shame…_

The war against Robert had given him some reprieve from his own dilemmas, but even after all the years since Richard hadn't been able to shake his love for the drink. _I am never drunk when on duty_ , he reminded himself. _I may be a poor man, but I will not be a poor knight._

He was shaken from his musings by Bryce cursing to himself. When he looked into the clearing just on the horizon he spotted a dozen mounds of crumbled battlements and structures, the last remains of some small outpost or keep rendered to rubble by battles long gone or corroded by time.

"What are they?" Bryce asked with boyish curiosity.

"Remains of an old keep," Richard said, slowing down. "They're probably leftovers from Harren the Black's time, the mad bastard had control of the Iron Isles, the Riverlands and had his eyes set on the Crownlands."

As they made their way towards the edge of the woods, Richard stopped his squire up and pushed him over to an ancient oak. He gave one long look at the hill and the ruins that littered it, seeing how the stones were larger than a man. They provided plenty of cover from onlookers, and the hill itself was high enough that anyone who approached could be spotted before they made it even half way. _He might be watching for trouble even now…_

"Right," he told the boy. "We're going to stay in this spot until it gets darker, and then I'm going to make my way up there."

Bryce's eyes shot wide open. "He's there? You saw him?"

"I didn't see him, but he's there." His face pressed into a frown. "You remember what I told you? If I'm gone longer than an hour….then I've been killed. You turn around and go back the way we came, _exactly_ the way we came. Our mounts will still be at the Inn, I'm known to the keeper-"

"-I could come with you!" the boy cut in. "I could help you, two men are better than one and you've seen me fight."

Richard couldn't help but smile at the boy's bravery. "Aye, you're a good fighter, but Stokeworth has felled three men, and I need someone to tell the king what happened here should I fall." He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "I trust you to do this for me lad."

Disappointment was plain on the boy's face, but he gave a reluctant nod in the end. They sat down by a felled tree and peered over its rotted bark at the hill. There was little movement, and less sound. The place looked as bereft of life as the king who had built on it, even as hours passed and the light grew dim. _Was I wrong?_ The doubts began to fester in his mind like an undressed wound, until he caught sight something among the rocks, a shine of sunlight on steel. _Got you…_

The sun had finally hit the horizon, and as dusk fell upon the world Richard made his move. With the thousand shadows that sprung from every tree and rock, coupled with the lengthy grass he managed to slowly make his way towards the hill crawling on his belly. It was hard work, with all the chainmail wearing him down, and slow going, but he felt a level of security. Surprise would be his biggest ally.

Rocks littered the hill top, like jagged teeth in a smashed face. A man in dull armour, and a faded golden cloak was sitting pressed up against the remnants of some fallen wall; his sword was across his lap. His appearance was haggard, his eyes brown bruises within the hollows of his sunken face, the grey beard at his jaw messy and dishevelled. When he saw Richard he jumped to his feet and raised his sword.

"S-stay back!" his voice was a hoarse rumble, his eyes dancing about madly.

Richard raised his hands peacefully. "There doesn't need to be any trouble Manly, I've not intention or desire to hurt you unless you give me cause."

"You'd best be on your way then," he muttered, eyes wild. "I'm not going back, not ever."

"Be reasonable Manly, you've done terrible things." Richard's gaze was steely. "You _murdered_ three men. You broke the King's peace; one way or another you're coming back with me."

"The King's _peace?"_ Stokeworth's mouth twisted in anger. "The King himself broke that peace when he led us all to war, and I have heard what he plans, on duty I heard. You serve a madman who would doom us all to chaos and bloodshed."

"Put away your steel," Richard told him. "And Rhaegar will give you a fair trial when we return, he is a merciful lord. You may be granted your life."

Stokeworth laughed. "Take the Black like the traitor Ned Stark? Freezing my arse off at the end of the world whilst my children live as hostages? I think not. I will return to my lands and see that the truth is revealed about your mad king."

"Rhaegar is many things but he is not mad." Ser Richard moved closer to the man. "Is that your final choice?" This time he put his hand on the hilt of his longsword. "If that is how you desire then so be it."

The two men were of a height, but Stokeworth was three stone heavier and made of less chivalrous stuff. Stokeworth was a trained killer not a tourney knight; he would not do things with propriety. With a sword in his hand and his foe before him, Richard breathed in and out slowly as he circled.

Stokeworth was fast, blazing fast, as quick as any man Ser Richard had ever fought on and off the tourney field. In his big hands, the sword became a whistling blur, a storm of steel that came at Richard from everywhere at once. The knight jumped back, parrying, but Stokeworth followed, pressing the attack. No sooner did Richard turn one cut than the next was upon him.

The swords kissed and sprang apart and kissed again. Richard found himself smiling. _This gives me purpose,_ he thought. _Here, there is no room for demons or haunted memories. There is only my blade and his._ He blocked the blows calmly, his longsword meeting each slash and turning it aside.

High, low, overhand, he rained down steel upon Stokeworth. Left, right, backslash, swinging so hard that sparks flew when the swords came together. Stokeworth cursed and turned a high cut into a low one, slipping past the knight's blade for once, only to have his blow scrape uselessly off a steel greave. Richard's answering slash found the former commander's left should, slipping through a joint of his armour and biting the flesh beneath.

The dance went on. He pinned Stokeworth against a boulder, cursed as he slipped away, and followed him through the maze of rubble. Steel rang, sang, screamed, sparked and scraped, and they were both grunting with effort. Stokeworth was wearing down. Richard could see it in his eyes; the doubt, anger, and the beginnings of fear.

"It is not too late to throw down your sword. Yield."

Stokeworth came on again, screaming as an answer. His blade slashed low, high, low again. Richard blocked the cuts to and neck, and let his armour stop the rest whilst his own blade took the man's ear from his head. The former commander howled in pain and blood welled from his wound.

Richard kept his guard up. "I'll ask you again, yield and this need not be your end."

The other man spat a wad of blood, and backed off slightly huffing up a lung. "Your king plans to bring war to the Seven Kingdoms, I would rather die now trying to put an end to it than live through another rebellion."

"Yield."

"Die," spat Stokeworth as he struggled to lift his blade up for another attack. His form was slow and forced and that was all the chance Ser Richard needed. He slashed across the man's unprotected throat, spurting out a crimson mist. Stokeworth brought a mailed glove to his throat, eyes wide with shock. Blood bubbled out and by that point the battle was done and the man toppled over into the dirt.

Richard took a few shaking steps back, and almost collapsed against a nearby block of stone. His breaths were heavy and fast, sheen of sweat covered his head, his eyes squeezed shut. He felt lightheaded, drunk. _I'm alive,_ he told himself. _I'm alive…_

After several long moments he opened his eyes and forced himself to look upon the corpse he had just made. Lying face first in the dirt surrounded by a crimson stain, Manly Stokeworth looked no longer human. Richard couldn't help but cry at the sight of it. _He was a man, but I made him into a thing._

The dead man's words still echoed through his head, over and over. Words of Rhaegar starting a war, words of chaos and rebellion, they gave him a chill. _Ravings_ of _a madman,_ he told himself. He wanted nothing more than to climb down, return to his squire and ride back to King's Landing where he could lose himself in his cups, but he still had work to do. He eyed the corpse again. _I must have proof._

With the taste of bile in his throat, Richard brought his sword down.


End file.
